


toss a coin to your witcher

by headaaches



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (also occasional and momentary), (mild and only occasional), (this one shouldn't fuck anyone up too badly), (well not really), (you'll see), Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Gen, M/M, Misgendering, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, also both jaskier and geralt are trans, jsyk, yennefer does some bad stuff in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22704199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headaaches/pseuds/headaaches
Summary: Jaskier was a witcher.--The swap au that no one asked for, and yet one that I will provide. Jaskier is a witcher... sort of, and Geralt is a bard... also sort of. More accurately, Jaskier is a mage pretending to be a witcher, and Geralt is a schoolteacher and amateur musician. Also, Yennefer is there! She's the same. Sort of.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 117





	toss a coin to your witcher

**Author's Note:**

> content warning for mild transphobia and general ickiness from yennefer in this one. also, it's quite a bit longer than my usual oneshots.

Jaskier was a witcher.

That's what he told everyone, anyway. And they didn't ask questions, not when he was carrying two swords on his back and wearing heavy black armor that looked like a weapon in and of itself. They didn't notice that his eyes were blue, tinged with purple, not the yellow of other witchers; they didn't look too closely at the medallion that he had made specially under the guise of a play being put on in a faraway village. They saw the man with lean, sinewy muscle walking into town, and they just ran.

He had never been doubted. No one asked him any questions that would be too hard to answer—after all, it was sort of hard to ask questions of the man who just killed a chimera and brought you its heads. 

Aretuza and everyone in it still knew, of course, but he didn't think they'd made the connection between Tissaia's former star pupil and the witcher who had suddenly appeared. Hopefully they hadn't. After all, it had been a lifetime since he was there, and he was no mage. Not anymore. 

He had found himself in a small village ravaged by a kikimora when he got his first question besides "what do I pay you?" 

"Why in the name of the Gods are you pretending to be a witcher?" 

Jaskier looked up from his breakfast in the local tavern, meeting the eyes of an immensely tall man with bright red hair shot through with white. He wore common clothes, no insignia to reveal him as another witcher—so why was he asking? And more importantly, how did he _know?_

"I'm not pretending," Jaskier said quietly, returning to his breakfast. The man sat down beside him at the table, looking at him with a look of disbelief.

"Your eyes are blue. And those swords are both steel, there's meant to be a silver one."

"It's… being repaired." 

"And your medallion is wrong." 

Jaskier deliberately did not look at the man. "Going to rat me out to the whole town, are you? The big scary witcher's a fake?"

The man laughed drily. "Hardly big or scary. And no, I won't tell people. I just don't understand why you'd want to _pretend_ to be a witcher. Respect? Fear?"

"They pay witchers more than ordinary people if you're going to kill monsters," Jaskier said carefully. It was a lie—he would have made far more money as a mage, but that meant questions about where he had trained, questions that would unravel quickly under scrutiny. Witchers weren't asked. People just paid you and took the severed heads of the creatures you killed for them, and no one wanted to look close enough to ask questions when you were covered in, say, selkiemor guts.

“I’m not going to pry,” the man said. “I’m Geralt. I teach at the school here.” 

“Jaskier.” He nodded to Geralt—who was slowly growing on him, in spite of everything he’d said and all the questions he’d asked. 

“Good to meet you, Jaskier.” He was really quite handsome, Jaskier thought. And he had always had a thing for redheads. 

They sat silently at the table for a moment, Jaskier fidgeting nervously with the medallion around his neck. Geralt seemed like he wanted to say something, but kept quiet. There was morning sunlight streaming in through the window, shining down on Geralt’s hair and making the white strands glow, and— 

“Can I come with you?” Geralt asked suddenly. 

“What?”

“Can I come with you when you leave? You’re not going to stay here forever, and I’ve been training other teachers—when I come back, maybe I’ll be a better teacher than I am now. And leaving this town might do me good.” 

“I… I suppose,” Jaskier said, caught off guard. “Do you want to?”

“I can leave as soon as tonight.”

Jaskier thought for a moment. He was meant to be the unknowable witcher; the falcon, as the towns near his usual hunting grounds had taken to calling him. But he had been so _desperately_ lonely the past few months—no one cared to talk to a witcher, especially not one who cut as intimidating a figure as Jaskier. 

Perhaps a traveling partner wouldn’t be so bad.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked, still looking at him. He didn’t know why he still wanted to look at a witcher.

“At least let me kill the stupid monster first.” 

— 

Geralt was proving to be quite the amicable traveling companion. They’d been traveling together for a few weeks now, and Jaskier had easily learned all of Geralt’s little habits. At night he would hum and sing around the campfire—usually folk songs he knew from home, but sometimes he would recall full epics, slipping between singing and reciting with ease. He wore small reading glasses when taking notes, and would get a focused look on his face whenever Jaskier was explaining about some monster. From day to day, Geralt’s clothing varied—sometimes he’d be in a tunic, other days a dress, other days he’d just be in his usual shirts and trousers. At night, he brushed out his hair, leaving it tied back into a plait so it didn’t tangle. 

Jaskier had also taken notice of his own habits—how he was always far more careful than he had to be with his armor, how in the morning the first thing he’d do was leave and take a small stroll around their campsite, how he would always finish what he was eating as quickly as he could or he wouldn’t eat at all. 

They’d fallen into an easy routine. It was comfortable—far more comfortable than traveling alone. Geralt didn’t talk too much, only asking easy questions that Jaskier could answer without too much effort. He never pried into Jaskier’s routines—at least, for the first few weeks. 

“Are you sleeping?” Geralt asked one morning.

“What?” 

“At night. Are you sleeping? I’ve never seen you go to bed.” 

Jaskier didn’t answer. 

“So you’re not, then.” He sighed. “You need to sleep, Jaskier. How do you expect to fight anything if you’re not at your full strength?”

“I’ve been doing _just_ fine for the past year or so. Get off my back about it.”

“No,” Geralt said.

“What?”

“No. I won’t. You’re hurting yourself.” 

Jaskier just shouldered his pack, ignoring Geralt’s sigh. Roach was barking behind him—the dog was an absolute demon, and yet Geralt insisted on showering her in affection constantly. She was amusing, though—Jaskier had to give her that. 

Travel was difficult when Geralt wouldn’t stop asking after his health. Every day, Geralt would give him this _look_ when he didn’t eat, and it was almost enough to make him eat properly—almost. And every morning, he’d check Jaskier’s bedroll to see whether he’d slept, feel it to see if it was warm. The fact that someone actually _cared_ enough to check up on him was already foreign enough, but Geralt actually followed up on it. He _cared_ , he cared so much that he was actually listening to what Jaskier said and made sure that he was safe. 

“You’re not going to stay up tonight,” Geralt said as they stopped for lunch beside a small river. 

“Like hell I’m not.”

“You absolutely are not.” Geralt’s voice was sharp. He actually looked angry. “I’ll stay up to make sure that you don’t.”

“Fine.” Jaskier hated how that sounded—it came out far brattier than he’d intended. They finished eating in silence, and as Jaskier started to walk down the trail, he heard the sound of a lute string being plucked.

Of _course_ he played the damn lute. 

As they continued through the woods, Jaskier magically tracking the beast that was meant to be ravaging the area, Geralt strummed his lute gently. It was nice, he couldn’t deny it, having company on his travels, but he still didn’t want a distraction. Not while he was hunting something.

He put up with the lute for at least an hour longer than he rightly should have. Geralt’s voice, quiet, sweet, improved the distraction somewhat, but eventually he had to put his foot down.

“Can you _stop_ it?” Jaskier said as Geralt started on yet another epic poem. He stopped short, kneeling down and brushing the ground. No more tracks. The beast was gone. He sighed, turning around to find Geralt staring at a nearby plant.

“Wolfsbane. Beautiful.” 

“Can we please move on?” Jaskier was getting incredibly irritated. They were losing daylight by the second, and no matter how _delightful_ traveling with someone else was, he was nearly ready to strangle Geralt if he stopped _one more time_ to look at some random plant or tree or rock. 

“Sorry. Go ahead. I’ll catch up,” Geralt said quietly. Jaskier rolled his eyes, but kept moving, albeit slower than usual. He only picked up his pace again when he heard Geralt start to walk behind him. 

When Geralt caught up, he was smiling. Jaskier just rolled his eyes again, but couldn’t help a small smile of his own. 

“You never told me why you’re pretending to be a witcher,” Geralt said over a meager dinner in the woods. 

“Yep.” Jaskier looked decidedly at the ground. 

“So…” Geralt shifted awkwardly on the ground, his hair gleaming redder than usual in the firelight. “You’re going to tell me, or no?”

“Not unless you make me.” 

They were silent for a moment as Jaskier debated the implications of what he’d just said with increasing horror. 

“I don’t think you really _want_ me to make you, Jaskier,” Geralt said with a small smile. “I think you want to tell me.”

“I don’t.” He did. Desperately. He had been coping with this alone for so very long, nearly a decade since he’d run away from Aretuza and his assignment and Tissaia and everything that he had never wanted to be. Geralt couldn’t know—he _wouldn’t_ , Jaskier would never do something that risky—but still, he wanted to tell him.

He wanted to _talk_ , to be told that it was alright, to be given the comfort he had never gotten. He wanted to stop keeping secrets for just _one_ day of his life, he wanted to be happy, he wanted to feel like he wasn’t going to be snatched from his tent in the night to be brought back to Aretuza and Tissaia. 

Jaskier didn’t notice that he was crying until Geralt put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Sorry.” He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, biting back his tears. The fire between them was doing little to warm Jaskier’s feelings—instead he was thinking of Aretuza, of his room there, of feeling completely and utterly alone. 

“Get some rest, Jaskier,” he said, helping him up and walking him back towards their tent. 

He was powerless to protest against Geralt, who he knew would be watching to make sure he actually slept. Taking off his armor, he set it aside and wiped it down gently to clean away the sweat of the day. His shoulders and chest ached, but it didn’t matter—that was usual for him. Loosening the laces at his back, he untied them and slipped off his shirt, preparing for bed. 

Sleep came quickly, and nightmares followed soon after. He had the same ones nearly every night—Tissaia finding him, locking him up alone in a tower, forcing him to go back to that country he'd long since forgotten the name of—and then he would wake in a cold sweat, sitting bolt upright, silently panicking. 

Except this time, when he woke, Geralt was right beside him.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. "You look like you're about to cry.”

Jaskier just shook his head, leaning down on Geralt’s shoulder. He prayed Geralt wouldn’t ask—and thankfully, he didn’t, just gently rubbed Jaskier’s back and murmured soft, soothing nothings into his ear. His head was pounding, and he could tell he was about to cry again, but Geralt said nothing, did nothing, just was _there_ with him. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked quietly. 

“No,” Jaskier said, his voice cracking terribly. 

“Alright,” Geralt said, and then said nothing more. 

— 

Noonwraiths. Jaskier _hated_ noonwraiths. They made him too sad, and besides, it was hot out, and they just made it hotter. The midday sun beat down heavy on his shoulders as Geralt pulled him up out of the well. 

“Jaskier?”

He turned quickly—he’d burned the remains, could light the well in moments, but there it was, standing over him and Jaskier, backing them up towards the well. They were backed into a corner. Jaskier’s grip on his sword was shaking. 

The noonwraith floated closer, its tattered, filthy wedding gown trailing almost ethereally in the air behind it. It tilted its head, and Jaskier barely had time to pull Geralt down and duck before a trail of fire was barreling towards them. He could feel the heat on his back as he held Geralt down, making sure nothing went wrong. 

Faintly, he could hear screaming. He couldn’t tell whether it was him or Geralt. Reaching into his bag, he searched by touch for a vial of black blood—he’d stolen it from a witcher in a town he’d stayed in. Of course, he hadn’t used it before—originally it had only been to prove he was a real witcher—but looking at things now, they were pretty dire, and if worst came to worst he would be forced to use it. 

Ducking down past the noonwraith, Jaskier urged Geralt to run, but his voice was choked in his throat and he couldn’t speak. He just shoved Geralt out of the way, praying he would take the hint and get to safety.

“I’m not leaving you,” he heard Geralt say, and he wanted to curse him, _stupid Geralt, get out, don’t get hurt—_ but he couldn’t speak, still paralyzed with fear. 

The noonwraith turned to stare at them. Jaskier’s whole body went cold. His hands were still shaking, but he closed his fists as tightly as he could, holding his sword with shaky arms and raising it to defend himself.

Geralt, it appeared, had finally gotten the message, and was slowly backing out of the clearing when the noonwraith reeled, turning on him instead, and he was panicking all over again. Not Geralt. He couldn’t get hurt, not when it would be Jaskier’s fault for dragging him along like this. Not now, when they were miles from help. 

The wraith breathed out a ball of dark fire, big enough to engulf Geralt’s entire upper body, and Jaskier didn’t know what to do but scream.

In an instant, the fire was blasted back, hitting the noonwraith square on. He didn’t stop, didn’t stop until the wraith was in pieces on the ground, didn’t stop until Geralt put a hand on his shoulder and he fell to his knees, exhausted.

“You’re a mage,” Geralt said, breathless. 

Jaskier was shaking, his voice torn up from screaming, tears blooming in his eyes. He felt Geralt behind him, and the tears spilled over. Magic had torn him to shreds, and he could feel his throat swelling from the effects of his magic. 

“That’s why you can face those creatures,” Geralt said, his voice hushed. He sounded like he was discovering some important historical secret, digging up the deep pain buried underneath the armor Jaskier wore. “That’s why you’re as strong as a witcher—you practically _are_ one.”

“I’m not,” Jaskier said, his head pounding. His eyes would _not_ focus, and his voice shook and cracked as he spoke, and he wanted to _run._ All of his senses were screaming at him to run, run, get away from Geralt. It was too dangerous to talk to people who sought knowledge; they would just take your secrets, keep them, hold them, tell them to the whole world when it took their fancy. 

“Did you train? Ban Ard, perhaps?” 

Jaskier could feel his muscles tensing, trying to run, choking on his own tears. He hated his magic, hated how it made him weak and controllable, hated how the magic he used only made him feel waves of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ washing over him. 

“You’re burning up—oh Gods, Jaskier, you look like you’re about to faint!” Geralt lifted him with relative ease, carrying him to a nearby clearing. 

“I’ll help you undress,” Geralt said quietly, setting him down. Jaskier felt his heart stop for a moment, then shook his head vigorously, pulling his arms around his chest to push the armor tight to his chest. “What? You have to—this armor is so heavy, you must be in so much pain right now! Jaskier, you have to.”

“No,” he said, choking on his words. “Please don’t—Geralt—”

“Alright, shh, it’s alright. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to.” His voice had slipped down into the warm, soft way he spoke to Roach, the way he must have spoken to the students at his school before. “Do you want me to touch you? You can say no, I won’t be upset at you.”

Jaskier just curled up against Geralt’s chest, still shaking violently. His heart was beating fast, too fast, and he wanted to go to sleep more than anything in the world, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t make himself vulnerable like that. 

“Come here, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, lips just barely brushing against Jaskier’s forehead. It felt good, undeniably good, but he refused to say it—to give Geralt any more paths to his heart. 

Two seconds more and Jaskier was crying, face pressed against Geralt’s shoulder to stem the flow of tears. Geralt’s hand was in his hair, which was too long by far, but they couldn’t stop to cut it on the trail. 

“Shh. It’s alright. You’re safe.” Geralt’s voice was low, comforting. He hated feeling dependent on someone else—dependence bred weakness, that was what he had always been told. 

“Thank you.” His voice broke. 

“It’s not a problem at all,” Geralt said, wrapping Jaskier in his cloak and gently setting him down in the clearing. “Now sleep. Please. You need your rest.”

“It’s barely past noon!” Jaskier protested, but he did have to admit that he was exhausted—both emotionally and physically. When he tried to stand, he nearly fainted, falling into Geralt’s arms. 

“Sorry.” 

“Not a problem,” Geralt said quietly, lifting him up with ease. Jaskier wondered vaguely how he had gotten so strong, and made a note to ask when he woke—a note that he was certain to forget, but it made him feel better in the moment. As Geralt carried him to safety, the exhaustion overtook him, and he fell into a fitful sleep. 

— 

_Aretuza was not a place for people like Jaskier._

_His roommates avoided him constantly. He hated the way they stared at him even when they were staying away from him._

_The day they did mind reading, he was instantly bombarded with the overwhelming sense of being hated. The vitriol that he felt rolling off of his classmates made him nearly fall over with the feeling that he did not belong._

_He didn’t belong with his classes—they hated him for his magic skills—he didn’t belong with his family—his mother had never loved him, not while he was still himself—and he didn’t even belong in his own body. He had known that since he was a child, and yet he couldn’t change it. Could_ never _change it. His only hope was keeping all of the money he had and trying to pay off the person who was meant to give them their ideal selves once they’d been given their assignments._

_And then Tissaia told him what his assignment was meant to be._

_“A court enchantress,” she said to him, delight on her face. “Aren’t you excited?”_

_“Court enchantresses are all female,” Jaskier said, tugging on the sleeve of his dress._

_“Which won’t be a problem for you.”_

_Jaskier felt like he was about to throw up. He excused himself and ran to his room, hiding his face and sobbing into his hands for what must have been hours, judging from the sounds passing outside. The one person he’d confessed to, the one person who knew, and she had thrown it all away._

_He packed his things and left the island that night._

_Soaked and terrified and so desperately alone, Jaskier sat on the shores, praying that he could get far away quickly enough that they wouldn’t hunt him down. He was a pupil at Aretuza, and that meant he was supposed to be important. He hadn’t felt anything close to important while he was there, but that was no matter. He wasn’t expendable, and that meant they would do anything to find him._

_Walking through the forest, he kept looking around to make sure no one was following him. The money he’d saved as a bribe was likely sufficient to buy himself some new clothing and a bit of food, which would keep him safe and warm until he could find a job. Magic was useful, after all, and a mage with his talents would go far if he knew how._

_That night, using the knife he’d stolen from his dormitory, he chopped off his hair and buried it._

_In a nearby village, he bought himself a set of clothes, some food, and a bag to carry everything in. The money he had left over—there was more than he’d thought there was—got him a nice large blessed-silver knife for defending himself and a dark, heavy cloak, one that looked sturdy enough to defend against the elements._

_The shopkeep warned him to stay away from the woods, especially the river. “That knife is no defense against what lurks there,” he said with an uncomfortably wide smile. Jaskier ignored his warnings—following the riverside route was the fastest way out of this town and towards the inlands, far away from Aretuza._

_He immediately regretted not taking the shopkeeper’s warning when he heard a terrible shriek coming out of the river._

_Pale, sickly green skin, seaweed hair dangling in front of its eyes, and dead white eyes that stared, empty, at Jaskier. He barely had time to scream before the disgusting thing was upon him._

_Reaction time had always been one of his points of pride, and he drew his knife, jamming it right where he thought the thing’s ribs would be. It shrieked, howling in pain, and Jaskier stabbed it again, kicking it into the river. He stood there, shaking, with his knife still in his hand, and tried to catch his breath. His cloak, miraculously, was still on, and he stared at the soaked hem for a moment._

_“Oi! Witcher!”_

_Jaskier looked around, but there was no witcher in sight. He looked down at himself—the dark cloak, the knife, how he’d just killed the monster—and realized suddenly._

_He turned around, drawing his cloak tightly around himself to hide his body._

_“Thanks for killing it!”_

_Jaskier just nodded._

_“Don’t talk, eh? You’re not the first. We’ve seen many of your kind like that. D’you want a reward? We’ve been looking for someone to kill that Drowner for near on a month now—it took two of our village’s girls.”_

_He approached them, hands shaking under his cloak._

_“C’mon back with us. We’ll pay you nicely.”_

_What choice did he have but to follow?_

_As Jaskier headed back out of town, his pockets weighted down with enough gold to last for quite a while, he reflected to himself for a moment. No questions. The ability to use magic. Everyone being afraid of him. And of course, all the infamy he could want._

_“Jaskier the witcher,” he said to himself quietly. “Hm. Sounds nice.”_

— 

He woke with a start, clutching his chest. He hadn’t thought about those memories in nearly a decade—eight years since he ran from Aretuza, eight years since becoming the witcher called Jaskier, eight years since he chopped off his hair in the woods alone. 

It was dark out. Jaskier noticed the tent set up around him—Geralt must have lit a fire outside, as light was filtering through the canvas. He felt a rush of relief in his chest at this. Geralt really _did_ care. 

“Are you awake?” Geralt said from beside him. Jaskier jumped, looking at him with surprise. 

“I am.” 

Geralt’s eyes flickered over Jaskier’s armor. “Shouldn’t you take that off now?” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Jaskier said, voice dropping nearly to a growl. 

Taken aback, Geralt raised his hands. “Sorry.” He looked upset, something warm and strange in his eyes—the warm, almost golden irises flickering in the candlelight. Ironic, he thought with a bitter, twisted smile, that Geralt had almost the exact eye color that would have made his lie perfect. 

Jaskier almost felt guilty. Almost. 

“While you were out I brought us close to a town,” he said quietly. “We’re going to be spending some time traveling on my terms, if that’s alright by you.” 

“What? Why?”

“My brother. Well—not _brother_ , exactly, he’s just someone very close to me. Eskel—he and I were children together in my hometown, raised in the same home. He wants me to attend an event—the birthday of his friend Yennefer. She’s a mage.”

 _Yennefer_ echoed in Jaskier’s mind—why did he know that name? Why was that so familiar? It wasn’t an especially uncommon name, but when his mind finally registered the last sentence—”she’s a mage”—he realized.

Yennefer, the girl in his class with the pretty eyes and the curved back, the girl who seemed to hate him a bit less than the rest, the girl who murmured something quiet and comforting in his mind after a long day of telepathy training. She hadn’t been as bad as the rest of them. In front of him, she tormented him with everyone else, but at least she didn’t hurt him as much as the rest.

“Is everything alright, Jaskier?” 

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.” He could _hear_ Yennefer’s voice in his head, drowning out the others—because others were there now, too, because now all of his classmates were in his head again, and he had to stop himself from covering his ears and hiding. He could hear the name he’d vowed to never say again, never even _think_ again, repeating again and again inside his head. 

“Jaskier. Jaskier? Can you talk to me?” 

He didn’t want to cry, not again. His heart was breaking. He didn’t want to see her ever again, not _ever._

“Jaskier.” Geralt slipped his hand under the shoulder plate of Jaskier’s armor, gently lifting it off. “Please just try and get some more rest. Please?”

Jaskier sighed, lifting away the rest of his armor to reveal the thick, warm shirt that he wore underneath. He wrapped himself in his cloak, closing his eyes.

It was a surprise to feel someone beside him, pressed closer than Jaskier had ever had someone. Geralt, hair loose, flowing over his shoulders and pooling under his head like a stream of red and silver water. One hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently. “Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt said. “Whatever it is, you can deal with it in the morning. Alright?”

“Alright,” Jaskier said, already half-asleep. 

— 

“Geralt!” Eskel held his arms wide, embracing Geralt with a grin. “It’s good to see my favorite brother again.”

“Favorite sibling,” he said, nodding. “And it’s good to see you again too, Eskel. Meet my friend Jaskier. He and I have been traveling together for about two months.”

“An adventurer!” Eskel said with a smile, gesturing widely to Jaskier. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Jaskier.”

Geralt hadn’t mentioned that his brother Eskel was a witcher. Jaskier was suddenly very aware of the fake medallion that still hung around his neck, the swords at his back, the obvious bright blue of his eyes.

“You wear a witcher’s medallion, but you’re not a witcher,” Eskel said, confused. Jaskier, red-faced, dropped his medallion into his shirt to hide it. He could feel Geralt’s gaze on him, smiling in amusement. 

“Er, have you fought any monsters?” Eskel asked, evidently trying to move past the awkward silence. 

“Many,” Geralt said. “He’s one of the bravest men I’ve ever met.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Jaskier said quietly. “Geralt’s the brave one. He faced a noonwraith with me, didn’t even flinch. He refused to run away!” 

“Is it still he, then?” Eskel asked. 

“Er, he or they. I don’t really mind.” 

Jaskier tilted his head, looking at him with a confused expression. “They? You didn’t tell me that.”

“I—no, I suppose I didn’t.” He—they?—smiled awkwardly at him, tucking a lock of silvery-red hair behind their ear. “Is that alright?”

“Of course it’s—” Jaskier sighed. “Of course. You’re still my friend, Geralt—is Geralt still alright?”

“Yes, Geralt is fine.” They smiled, still fidgeting with their hair. 

"Anyway, Geralt, you absolutely _have_ to meet my friend Yennefer. She's fascinating, tells me the strangest stories." Eskel led them deeper into his home, which was richly decorated. "You'll be staying here. I tried to prepare it for you as best as I could, but I'm afraid I haven't accounted for your guest."

"That's alright," Geralt said. "We've been sleeping on the road for a while, so anything besides a bedroll is honestly the height of luxury for me right now."

Eskel laughed. "My brother, roughing it. Who would have thought."

With that, Eskel left, and Geralt and Jaskier were alone.

They stood together quietly, not moving, just standing in the small guest room. Jaskier debated the merits of running away and never speaking to Geralt again, but decided against it—losing his traveling partner forever wasn’t worth a bit of threatening Yennefer, and besides, she might not even recognize him.

They were silent for a few more moments until Geralt asked, “What do you have against mages from Aretuza?” 

Jaskier felt his heart seize up. “What? Where’d you get that idea?”

“You’ve avoided them whenever we’ve met them. And now that you’ve heard about Yennefer you look like you’re about to cry.”

“I’m not about to cry.” He took off his armor, setting it all aside on one wall. “And besides, if you didn’t tell me you wanted me to call you ‘they’, you really can’t ask me to tell you everything about myself, can you?”

“Look, that wasn’t intentional. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t want you to be upset by it,” they said, taking a step closer to him. “I’m not terribly upset by it when people call me ‘he’, but I prefer ‘they’. And besides—it isn’t easy to be who I am when I’m still traveling like this. With you.”

“Are you saying that I’ve made you feel—”

“No! No, Gods no, Jaskier.” They raked a hand through their hair. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t mean it—you’re my _friend_ , Jaskier, I know you would never do anything to hurt me.” 

Jaskier didn’t reply, just fidgeted with the collar of his shirt. 

“Jaskier?” they asked quietly, hesitantly.

“Leave it,” Jaskier replied, looking away. “We’ll only be here for a little while anyway.”

“Jaskier, you have to—”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” Jaskier snapped, staring Geralt dead in the eyes. He could feel Geralt’s sadness leaching off of them, terribly hot and painful, and he could _smell_ the fear in Geralt’s mind. Their thoughts were audible, loud in his mind— 

_Is Jaskier alright? He’s so upset, always acting strange, what if someone’s hurt him? Is it because of his past? He never talks about it. I just hope he’s alright._

He didn’t want to see Geralt’s face. Not when they were thinking these awful things about him, this _pity_ in his mind. 

“Jaskier? Please talk to me.” 

_Talk to me. Talk to me._ Geralt’s thoughts were even louder in his head now. He pushed deeper, tried to hear the rest of it—

“Are you _actually_ in my head right now?” Geralt’s voice dropped lower, almost a snarl, and Jaskier turned back, trying to calm himself down. 

“I—I didn’t—”

“If you ever do that again—”

“Geralt, I’m sorry—”

“Gods, is every mage like Yennefer?” Geralt said, looking away from Jaskier. 

_Yennefer_ —they knew Yennefer, they knew her, they _knew_ —what if she had told them? It was an unusual story, one that had spread to most of the towns Jaskier had worked in—oh Gods, what if Geralt had heard? What if they were going to put the pieces together as soon as Yennefer saw him, and he would have to run away from his past for the second time.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier managed to say, and left. 

He didn’t know where he was going. He wasn’t wearing his armor, so hunting was out of the question, and besides there was already a witcher in the town. Instead, he just wandered through the woods, cursing himself for not taking his cloak with him— _it’s_ _winter, stupid, you’re going to freeze—but maybe that won’t be so bad._

“Ever the martyr, I see,” a familiar voice said from behind him. 

“Hello, Yennefer,” Jaskier said, not turning around. 

“It’s been a while… Jaskier.” In spite of himself, he breathed a sigh of relief. “That is your name now, is it not?”

“It is.”

“Brave of you to escape from Aretuza,” she said, walking around to look him in the eye. He tensed in spite of himself, feeling every instinct in his body screaming at him to _runrunrunrun._ Yennefer’s bright violet eyes flickered, looking him up and down, looking him over with one brow arched. “Shame you couldn’t have gone through the process like the rest of us did. You certainly could have used it.” 

Jaskier felt his face go red. _She isn’t worth it, she isn’t worth the fight._ Yennefer laughed, and Jaskier realized with a start that she was in his head. 

“Maybe you should have run while you still had the chance, _witcher_ ,” she said, her tone full of contempt. He could feel his heart racing, and suddenly felt like he was prey being stalked by a hungry lioness. Yennefer’s slow approach towards him didn’t improve the feeling—in fact, it only worsened, as the hungry spark in Yennefer’s eyes that had been there all along started to glint brighter.

She and Jaskier had always been around the same height—Yennefer always just a bit taller—but with the hunch in her back now gone, she was taller than him, and the heels on her boots brought her even higher. He was powerless, his magic weak and hard to control after years of disuse, and his swords were stashed in the room he and Geralt were still meant to share— 

_Geralt._ He tried desperately to stop thinking of them, to make sure Yennefer couldn’t find those thoughts, but from her low laugh and the way his head hurt, he knew she already had.

“Really? Him?” Yennefer laughed. “You’re cute. A child with a schoolyard crush, playing at being a witcher to impress someone you barely know.” 

Jaskier wanted to run. Every instinct in his body was telling him to, but somehow Yennefer was holding him there, in her thrall. 

“You want to run away? Scared of a _girl?_ What kind of witcher are you?” she asked, laughing again. “Go. Run back to _Geralt,_ tell him Yennefer’s bullying you. See which of us he believes. You’ve known him for, what, less than two months? It’s been _years_ for us, little mage, years longer than you. What kind of friend would he be if he abandoned his Yennefer after the scary witcher attacked her?”

“Stop it,” Jaskier said, voice weak. He couldn’t do anything else, couldn’t run—he wasn’t going to run. He wasn’t a _coward._

“Oh, of course you’re not a coward,” Yennefer said with a smile that bordered on sweet. “You’re so _very_ brave, aren’t you? Fighting all of those monsters… running away from your problems… not confiding in your friend because you’re scared he’ll be angry…” Her smile stretched and twisted, looking _wrong._ “Truly the mark of a brave man.” 

“Get _away_ from me!” Jaskier shoved her back, stumbling away towards the edge of the woods. Yennefer fell back—if he had nothing else, the strength he’d developed from years of being a witcher was enough to protect him at least a bit. “Leave me alone!”

“If you insist,” Yennefer said, and then she was gone.

Jaskier stood alone in the woods, head pounding from Yennefer’s magic. He tried to catch his breath to no avail. All he could think about was Geralt—what if she had already found them, what if she was telling them right now? 

He couldn’t think like that, couldn’t bear it. All he had to do was get back to the house, find Geralt, and tell them not to listen to Yennefer. That she was lying. It was easy—he knew how much they hated her already, why should it be difficult? 

And yet, as he made the trek back to the house, his mind wouldn’t stop reminding him— _they might not believe you. They might believe Yennefer. She’s going to tell them everything, and they might listen._

“Jaskier!” 

Geralt was standing outside—they had been _waiting_ for him?—and Yennefer was nowhere to be seen. They looked worried.

“Where have you _been_?” they asked, placing their hands on his shoulders as soon as he was close enough. “I looked for you in town—did you go out into the woods? You could have gotten hurt, why didn’t you take your armor?! Jaskier, how many times have I told you to take better care of—”

“Where is she?” 

“What?”

“Where’s Yennefer? I know she’s here, she _has_ to be.” He felt the panic rising in his chest but didn’t care. If she had told them— 

“She’s not here, Jaskier, she hasn’t been for a while. She isn’t due to get here until tomorrow—are you alright?” 

He was shaking. He hadn’t noticed before, but he was. “I’m fine,” he said, leaning on Geralt as they made their way back into the house. “She’s not—she isn’t here.” His sigh of relief was more of a sob, and Geralt looked more worried every second.

“Do you know her?” Geralt asked, confused. Jaskier didn’t want to disappoint them—didn’t want Geralt to know that everything he had said had been one big lie. He shook his head, still weak from his encounter with Yennefer. It was immediately obvious that Geralt didn’t believe him. Of course not. He could _never_ let them meet Yennefer, not after what happened. It was dangerous. 

“Jaskier, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Geralt said, worry knitting their brow. “Please just get some rest? You’re always staying up too late, and I feel like you never give yourself any time to relax.”

“I do, it’s just—” 

Jaskier froze when he heard the sound of voices in the other room. Eskel, talking brightly and cheerfully with someone else—and—

“No, no, no—” He could feel the panic overtaking him again, crashing into him with waves the size of castles. Geralt looked even more worried than before. “She’s _here._ ”

“You can tell it’s her just from that?” His worry got even more pronounced. “No matter—is everything alright? You said you didn’t know her.”

“I just—”

Yennefer strode into the room, cool and collected.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” she said, not even bothering to fake it believably. “Geralt here befriending a witcher.”

“Yennefer.” Geralt’s eyes flickered with fear for barely a moment. “What are you doing in our room.”

“Oh, it’s ‘our’ room, is it?” She laughed. “So he does know after all.”

Both Jaskier and Geralt tensed. 

“Relax, witcher,” she said, putting enough emphasis on the word that it was obvious to both of them that she knew. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“From what he’s said, you already have,” Geralt practically growled, stepping in front of Jaskier protectively. “Why are you here?”

“Just to say hello. I haven’t seen you all in a while,” she said, still perfectly cool. 

“Get out of our room,” Jaskier said, praying his voice wouldn’t shake. 

“Have you ever heard the story about the mage who escaped from Aretuza?” she asked, as if they were having a pleasant conversation. Jaskier’s hands clenched tightly around Geralt’s sleeve, holding onto them tightly. He wanted to run away again, every instinct choking him with fear. 

“Get _out_ , Yennefer,” Geralt said, the glare in their eyes obvious. 

“It’s a fascinating one,” Yennefer said, sitting down on their bed primly. “She was a powerful one—Tissaia’s prime student, the best in the class. She was powerful, one of the very best…” 

She paused for a moment, looking at Geralt with half-lidded eyes. 

“But she couldn’t _handle it._ She couldn’t take the pressure. Tissaia gave her an assignment and she couldn’t handle putting her own feelings aside for the greater public good—” 

“Stop it,” Jaskier said, voice low. 

“Does it make you uncomfortable, Jaskier?” she said, one long nail twirled in her hair. 

“I said, _stop_ ,” he said again, feeling like there was something caught in his throat and choking him.

“Jaskier, dear, you look so upset. Why is it affecting you so much?”

“I told you to _stop!_ ” He felt his voice rise to a shriek, sharp enough that Geralt covered their ears. Yennefer fell back onto the bed, looking startled. 

“Jaskier—” Geralt’s hand on his shoulder was steadying him, but not enough. He was ready to attack her, ready to rip her in two, find his swords— 

_No._

“I told you to stop,” he said, pacing towards Yennefer. “You didn’t listen. I tried to get you to stop, and you _didn’t listen._ You have _never_ listened to me, you’ve never tried to do anything to protect me beyond useless comfort _after_ the fact—”

“What are you talking about?” Geralt asked, looking confused.

“So I’m going to tell you one more time,” Jaskier said, glaring down at her with fear and anger in his eyes. “ _Stop._ ”

The door opened.

“Yennefer? Why are you in here?” Eskel looked even more confused than Geralt. 

“Just saying hello to your guests, friend,” she said, breezing out of the room. “Good to meet you, Jaskier.”

As soon as she was gone, Jaskier nearly collapsed. Geralt pulled him into their arms quickly enough that he didn’t fall, but he suddenly felt incredibly lightheaded. 

“I’ll go deal with her,” Eskel said, nodding to Geralt. They nodded back, and when Eskel left, closing the door gently behind him, Jaskier fell back onto the bed. 

His heart ached. Yennefer had been one of the closest people to him in his life—as close as he could be to anyone at Aretuza. There had been so much difficulty in his life at Aretuza, and Yennefer had been a bright spot—as bright a spot as there could be, of course—that helped him get through the pain and torture of his life there. Now that he was free, though, she was _terrible,_ horrible to him, and it just made him trust less. If Yennefer of all people would hurt him, _anyone_ would. Even… even Geralt.

“Are you alright? Shh, Jaskier, you’re alright. Lay down, I’m going to get you some water—you look like you’re going to cry, Jaskier, I’m so sorry. Yennefer is _awful,_ I’m so sorry that you had to listen to her.” 

But Geralt hadn’t. They hadn’t hurt him—they would never hurt him. Somehow, they were willing to talk to him, willing to help him, willing to be a shoulder to cry on or someone who could just listen. They had been there through everything, through Jaskier being a terrible person who never listened to them for the first week of their training, through Jaskier never talking about his feelings, through Jaskier dragging him through battle after battle—

“You’re alright, Jaskier,” Geralt said softly, wiping away his tears—tears? Was he crying again? “Drink some water, please.” 

He sat up, leaning against Geralt’s shoulder and taking the water from them. “Thank you,” he said quietly. 

“Just… breathe. You’re safe.” 

“I have to tell you something,” Jaskier said, shifting to sit up by himself. “Geralt, I knew her before, she and I—we were classmates, Aretuza—”

“Shh, Jaskier. I knew.”

“You—you knew?” He felt himself tearing up once again. “Oh, Gods, Geralt, you—”

“I knew, and I don’t care. Not that I don’t _care_ , I do care about your past, but—it doesn’t matter. It won’t change anything between us. You’re a strong mage and an _incredible_ witcher and, more importantly, a very good friend.” 

Jaskier felt another sob force itself out. 

“I’ll want to hear the story, but only if you’re ready to tell it. After all, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t listen to the harrowing tale of my friend’s escape from Aretuza?” They laughed quietly, and Jaskier thought he might die. 

"And yes, I know that Aretuza is meant to be a girls-only school," Geralt continued, their hand buried in Jaskier's hair. "But like I said, it doesn't change anything. You're still the man I know you to be—stupid enough to get in a fight in a tavern and handsome enough to talk your way out of prison afterwards."

Jaskier stilled. Did they actually say what he thought they just said? Did they actually just call him _handsome_?

"Did you—"

"I suppose I did," Geralt said, their face red. "Is that alright? Because it's true, you know, you're very handsome—"

"Geralt." 

"I'm sorry," they said. "That was much too forward of me, I shouldn't have—"

"Geralt—"

"We aren't even _friends_ , why did I—"

"Geralt!"

They finally quieted, looking him in the eye.

"Thank you." He pulled Geralt into the tightest hug he could muster, smiling softly into their shoulder. 

When they pulled apart, Jaskier was still smiling. He hadn't felt this good in _ages_ —he hadn't _ever_ felt this good. Geralt still seemed shy, but less so than before, which was at least a comfort. 

"And for what it's worth, we most definitely _are_ friends."

**Author's Note:**

> i know this isn't my usual fare, but it was a blast to write and my friends have given me all the inspiration i need to write more. i hope you enjoyed it anyway, even if it wasn't what you subscribed to me for. 
> 
> a big thanks to my dear friends kait and gansey for reading this, and an even bigger thanks to noor, who read it and somehow got invested in the plot even though they've only seen 13 minutes of the witcher pilot. and an even bigger thanks to you for reading!


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